Letters to My Future Bride

Waking Up

Dear Darling,

It was early this morning when I slowly woke to a bird cheerfully whistling outside the window. I’d like to say the sun was streaming around the window canopy, but what light there was seemed dim, as if was either cloudy or just too early for the sun. I’m laying in this bed so generously large it’s cruel, imagining us waking together in the mornings, the sweetly familiar ecstasy of greeting another morning and finding each other still there to face it side by side.

A fresh dawn means a fresh start, and I hope whatever quarrels, qualms or questions from the night before have slowly burned themselves out during the night. I hope I’ll roll over and whisper a smile into your ear, which quickly works its way to your lips where mine will be there to meet it. I’ll reach my arm around your waist, or behind your neck to pull you in for a kiss. I’ll roll you towards me and feel your hair all around me, our goofy morning laughter repeatedly punctuated with uncounted kisses.

I’ll revel in your love, drinking it in and breathing it like air. I’ll crave it like a drug and hoard it like a miser. I’ll remind you how long I’ve waited, how happy you’ve made me, how much I love you. I’ll use every word I can to express my love until your heart brims over, until you feel like you can’t take it anymore, until we’ve talked ourselves into a full-blown state of quivering adoration and desire.

Breakfast can wait. Work can wait. Shoot, it’s made me wait this long, let life wait! Let the whole frigging world wait. I’ve had enough of it, and it’s made me wait this long.

I’m trying to console myself with thoughts like this, closing my eyes and reminding myself. I’ve done for so long that its eventual realization will doubtless feel peculiar to me. Someday starts to feel so far away sometimes…

“Are you sure your standards aren’t so high that no one can meet them?” a friend recently asked. I met her for a bite to eat just to be there for her, because her husband abruptly left her and she needed a friend and godly influence. (I even shared the gospel with her, though it seemed to fall on unfertile ground.)

Friends, loved ones and even close family have posed the same question. I’ve even been told there is no such thing as falling in love, and that anyone who places stock in such feelings lack a true foundation, mistaking infatuation for a bond of affection. But since when has surety accompanied love? Feelings come and go, of course, but is it so much to hope that the same woman who can complement me and reflect my faith can also ignite my heart and share the biggest crush with me?

Well anyway. I don’t know why I woke so early. My mind simply decided it’d had its rest, and as I realized I wouldn’t be going back to sleep, my eyes rested on my laptop with the cheerful and simultaneous realization that I wanted to spend time with you, and writing you a letter was the next best thing.

I’ve been working pretty hard the past few weeks, and it seems sometimes to deplete that inspiration to write. But then, I think you can understand how putting money in the bank may be of greater benefit to our future life together than whiling away the hours on these fanciful writings.

But dash it, those summer nights! Those darn, darn summer nights! Those nights when the wind dares and the stars beckon, where you want to find an empty road or deserted mesa, a vacant field to gaze skyward, a tree to climb, a game to play, a movie to watch…just something to do. These are some of those times where there’s an impatient little kid inside of me hating the delay. Ideas hit me, but there isn’t anyone to share them with, no one to justify acting on these crazy impulses. (For example, tonight while driving home, I opened the sun roof and let the rain come down on me.)

I truly don’t understand how I can feel so bored and restless on these nights. I worked a lot early on the week, I went to movies, met with my family, met with a friend, went out for ice cream with two others, and participated in community safety simulations three days this week. And yet I still found myself bored. I once mentioned this to a friend, saying it’s almost like I require constant stimulation. They replied “sounds like your future wife has her work cut out for her.” That she does.

I went to an antique mall today. Or maybe it was a knick-knack shop. It’s just the perfect place to go if you want to buy assorted DVDs, books, bottles with a print painting of American Gothic, old furniture, mini busts of Abraham Lincoln or Venus de Milo, wine racks, cheese slicers, poker chips, prom dresses, toy cars or bird houses. There are racks of costume jewelry and knives and tea sets and magazines, and behind a glass case I spy an exact duplicate of a small and aged cap pistol I once owned. It was a rather enchanting place, my dear, and before I knew it, an hour was gone. I wandered among the booths, fascinated by all the relics of lifetimes gone by.

There’s thousands of pieces here, and a million memories. That’s what it was…a memory shop. What fun we would have had in there, and what conversations we could have had, combing through the treasures, gasping at new finds, marveling at others. I shouldn’t have gone. I went to look, and came out with four books and a painting. But it’s my favorite, Edmond Blair Leighton’s The Accolade.

All this life I’m living…all these things I’m doing. Why do I feel that, until you get here, it’s just going through the motions?

I’m here, Darling. Chasing you through time, pursuing you as eagerly as blind future allows, waiting for the day I can step out from behind the curtain, the day I can tell you I’m the one you’ve been looking for. Don’t stop waiting, and don’t stop looking, because one day I’ll be there, and I hope you’ll be ready.

Love ever,
Beren

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[…] a friend long-expected whose presence had been long missed. And I realized, it’s not just the summer winds from the south, or the westerly autumn winds that drive me to fits of restlessness; it’s […]

About

Welcome. You’ve stumbled upon the secretest of treasure troves; love letters to a woman I’ve never met. Luthien, the love of my life, my future bride. Until time and time’s Author release her to me, I am hiding the poems, laments and love-sick lullabies tucked away here, in a quiet corner until we meet; private words spoken publicly. You are invited to tread among these sacred thoughts, and may by some grace be encouraged in your wait, and to remember your own love, your own value and the precious rewards of waiting.

Your comments, likes and shares are welcome. If you have questions, a letter may find its way to my door if addressed to LetterstoLuthien, by way of the courier known as Yahoo.